


There is a pleasure in the pathless woods

by amberfox17



Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Forest God Loki, Human worshipper Thor, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rough Sex, sacrifical sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-28
Updated: 2013-07-28
Packaged: 2017-12-21 15:02:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/901656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amberfox17/pseuds/amberfox17
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Forest God Loki/Human Worshipper Thor AU.</p><p>The signs are clear. The Forest God is angry and only one thing will appease him: the willing sacrifice of his most beloved mortal, the mighty Thor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	There is a pleasure in the pathless woods

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this piece of amazing artwork](http://mrhiddles.tumblr.com/post/55915341762) featuring 'Forest god Loki and reverent Thor'. [Tom Hiddleston at Comic Con](http://amberfox17.tumblr.com/post/56201599443) happened just as I started writing though, and it quickly mutated into Jealous Diva Forest God Loki and Willing Sacrifice Thor. Title is from a poem by Lord Byron.

The signs are clear.

The child is born in the summer: blonde haired, blue eyed, lusty voiced. He grows fast and grows strong, towering over the other children, wrestling them to the ground with ease. He laughs easily and often, with a great booming voice. As he becomes a man the men and women of the village flock to him, as friends and lovers and followers.

His name is Thor and he is favoured by the gods.

The Sky Father has blessed his sword arm for he never loses a battle. The Earth Mother has blessed him for he is healthy and strong even in the times of sickness. The gods of sea and stone and forge must favour him for he alone bears no scars, takes no injury, suffers no loss, despite his lust for life and fearless ways.

But it is the Forest Lord who loves him best.

The signs are clear. Thor is a mighty hunter, true, but his luck goes above and beyond the greatest of skills. His arrows never miss, his spear never breaks. Deer and boar and rabbits and birds; no matter what game he seeks, it will always appear before him, trembling, frozen, waiting for his strike. When he walks in the forest the wind drops but the trees whisper and he listens, head tilted, to a sound no-one else can hear.

He is Chosen, the Gatekeeper says, and no-one doubts his word, for it is the duty of the Gatekeeper to stand between the world of mortals and the world of the spirits, to read the signs in the flights of birds, the shimmering of water and the shadows in the sunset, and to intercede with the powers that are mightier than men. He is Chosen, the Gatekeeper says, and so he is blessed and the village is blessed and all is well.

The signs are clear. Other villages, near and then far, hear of the prowess of the Mighty Thor and the prosperity of his village. People come and people go, to spend a night with the beloved of the gods, or to trade for the surplus of meat and fur his people now have. Some stay and settle, hoping to reap the rewards of the village’s good fortune, and so slowly but surely the village grows, until it is the largest that any have heard of.

Thor hunts more and more to help feed his growing people, but the blessings hold. The forest that surrounds them is lush and green, teeming with life, and even in the frozen winter months there is always game to be found – at least by Thor. He is grown now and the people begin to talk of how he should be honoured. Should he take his father’s place as leader of the tribe? Should he learn to speak with the gods as the Gatekeeper does? Should he be given the honour and status of the glorious dead while still in the world of the living?

Thor basks in his glory. Are not all these things his due? But the duties of the village leader prove tiresome and the study of the ways of the gods onerous. The tribute of fruit and flowers and fine words is pleasing but soon grows repetitive. What more is there to being the Chosen of his people?

The signs are clear. The beloved of the gods should have a bride worthy of the gods. It is an old custom, and one not needed since Thor became the luck of the tribe, but not so long ago when the gods were displeased a maiden would be found, beautiful and fierce, and given to the world of the spirits as tribute and sacrifice and thanks. Should the mighty Thor not have the same?

The word goes out and three moons later she arrives. She is from a far off land, tiny and  delicate, dark and soft-spoken. But she is no meek and mild creature. Her name and her speech seem strange to Thor’s people, but there is no doubting her intelligence, her will and her strength. It is a good match, the people say, and Thor himself soon loses his heart to his newfound love.

The wedding is a glorious affair of feasts and feats of skill. The finest clothes are woven and fresh decorations made. The Gatekeeper presides over it, and proclaims the omens from the Sky Father and Earth Mother, who watch over all mortal marriages, promise a long and happy life and many healthy children.

No-one looks for omens from the forest. The god of hunting, of the death of small things, of tricks and snares and stealth and skill and the silence between breaths, has no place at weddings.

The morning after the wedding Thor rises early, feeling well pleased with his luck, his life and his bride, and sets off for the forest.

But the forest is silent.

Thor walks in the shadows of the trees and for the first time in his life he is afraid. The wood has always welcomed him, singing soft songs to him in the rustling of the leaves and the murmur of the streams. There has always been a presence waiting for him, mischievous and teasing, brushing almost imperceptible kisses over his cheek as he draws his bow, running sun-warm fingers across his skin that melt away to vines and cobwebs when he turns. He has felt a guiding hand all his life, leading him through the tangled undergrowth, laughing softly when he smiles.

But now the forest is still and silent. He sees no game, hears no birds. Nothing moves, not even the wind.

“Lord?” he says, his voice small and afraid in the vastness. But there is no answer.

He returns to the village empty-handed and trembling.

The signs are clear. It is not only Thor the forest has rejected: no matter who ventures into the now-menacing depths, there is nothing to be found that is good to eat, no game, no fish, not even berries in the bushes or mushrooms in the earth. Nothing but the green of the leaves and the green of the grass and the green of the moss can be found in the forest.

The signs are clear. The village has supplies, but they are so many that they will not last long. The Forest Lord is angry and must be appeased, and it is clear there is only one sacrifice he wants.

Thor’s bride dresses him for the last time, wrapping the folds of pure white cloth around him as if he were already dead. She paints the symbols to see him through the land of the dead onto his skin in red ochre, her hands never failing.  She places the horn of offering in his hands, bright with fruit and flowers and feathers. She kisses him for the last time. She is sad, but she is not broken: she will return to her own people, and tell the tale, that mortals and gods cannot love without sorrow and loss.

When he is ready she puts on her own widow’s mourning and leads him through the village, his people falling in behind them. They sing a song of praise and glory, of Thor’s great deeds and the wonders of the gods. When they reach the edge of the forest they stop and form a loose circle, singing and dancing, calling on the Forest Lord to forgive them, to accept Thor as a symbol of their love and thanks.

When the song ends, the Gatekeeper howls, a great cry of mourning and loss. Thor’s bride does the same and falls to her knees, tearing at her clothes. “My husband is dead,” she screams, and all around her the village follows, crying out their sorrow and pain at the passing of their favoured son.

Thor walks alone into the forest.

The signs are clear. He brought this on his people; this is the price of his arrogance and pride. He has betrayed the one who loves him best, and now he must prove his worth to his Lord. He walks deeper and deeper into the forest, the gloom growing as the trees swallow up the light. He has never walked this path before, but he does not waver.

Deep within the forest is a small clearing. Long ago, the ancestors raised a great stone here, carved with all the creatures of the forest. Perhaps once it was bright and smooth, but now the stone is dark and stained. There has been no need to visit this grove in Thor’s lifetime, but he knows it, as all his people know it. It is the place of sacrifice. Many brave men and women have come to this place, for the Forest Lord is a fickle and treacherous god, and demands his due in blood; but alone among the gods he also demands that his tributes come willing and on their own two feet. Many have gone into the forest, in times of famine and strife. None have ever come back.

Thor kneels before the stone and raises the horn above his head, waiting.

He does not wait for long.

It is as sudden as a cloud passing from the face of the sun. One moment there is silence, stillness; the next, he can feel the presence again, a figure standing behind him, radiating menace.

“Thor,” says the god and Thor trembles. He has caught whispers, laughter, an echo on the wind...but never before has he heard his voice, and never has he heard such anger.

“My Lord,” he replies humbly, not daring to move. “I – I have come -”

“I know why you are here,” the god hisses. “You think to buy back my favour with offerings and pretty words. You think your betrayal will be forgiven if you kneel before me.”

The wind has risen in the clearing and all around them the trees moan in distress as the god slowly circles around Thor. Thor keeps his head down, his heart thudding, eyes fixed on the grass beneath him, but he cannot help but catch glimpses of pale feet and slender ankles. The gods are beautiful: this is known, and the Forest Lord’s symbols are the serpent, the wolf, the antlered stag, all creatures of elegance and power. But none know what a god might look like, for none have ever encountered one and returned to speak of it.

“You are ungrateful,” the god says furiously as he moves. “You are not worthy of my love. I have blessed you above all others, and you repaid my favour by forsaking me for that mortal woman.”

He pauses in front of Thor. This close, Thor can smell him: the scent of damp earth, of rotting wood and fresh sap, of moss and leafmold and flowers in springtime.

“I do not want your foolish offerings.” The Forest Lord lashes out, like a snake striking, and knocks the horn out of Thor’s hands. Thor rocks from the power of the blow and drops his hands to his knees. “I do not want your _lies_.”

Then there is only one thing left, Thor thinks, licking his dry lips. He closes his eyes and tilts his head back, exposing his throat and offering his life.

“No!” the Forest Lord roars and this time he strikes Thor hard across the face. Thor crashes to the ground, his head ringing. He lays there for a moment, half-stunned. The anger of the gods is a terrible thing indeed, he thinks muzzily, but when he raises a hand to his face there is no blood, no swelling, and within seconds the pain passes as if it never was. He does not understand.

The Forest Lord is standing over him. Keeping his gaze on the ground Thor struggles back to his knees.

“Lord -” he forces out, but the god growls and he falls silent.

 “Say my name,” the Forest Lord says.

Thor hesitates. Only the Gatekeepers ever speak the true names of the gods, and while he has studied the ways of the spirit world, he is no shaman, and it would be a great sin to speak the holy words. But how can it be blasphemy to obey his Lord?

“Say my _name_ ,” the god insists, and a hand grips him hard under the chin and forces his face up.

“Loki,” Thor breathes as he stares into the face of his god.

The Forest Lord has the face and form of a man, but none could doubt that he is no mortal, for green flames flicker in his eyes and his skin is as pale and as smooth as bleached wood. Huge antlers branch from his forehead, looped with impossibly fine chains of gold. He wears both beaten gold and living vines as jewellery and little else. Thor cannot help but gasp a little, for Loki is beautiful and terrible and glorious. He is more than Thor has ever imagined.

But his eyes are black with fury and his face twisted with rage.

“You are _mine_ ,” Loki snarls, his grip painfully tight. “You _defiled_ yourself with that mortal. Your flesh has been corrupted by hertouch. You must be purified for me.”

He looks half-mad and his words make no sense. Thor had not sworn himself to the Forest Lord, had made no vow of celibacy, nor spoken words of devotion to the whispering air. His god has never spoken to him before this day, never asked for Thor’s flesh or heart or obedience. No Gatekeeper has ever said that to be favoured by the gods was to be denied a wife and children, for is that not the greatest gift the gods can bestow upon a man?

Yet no-one has ever been blessed by the Forest Lord before, not as Thor has been, for he is a fey and feral god, and as much a thief as a gift-giver. But he has given Thor everything he could have asked for and Thor has taken and taken and taken and never once thought what the price would be. As he looks into the crazed eyes of his god, Thor knows now what it will take to soothe him.

“Forgive me,” he pleads, stretching out his hands but not quite touching Loki. “Make me yours again.”

“Why should I?” spits the mad god. “What will you give me that your precious mortals have not already had from you?”

Thor licks his lips again and the god’s wild eyes track the movement. The signs are clear.

Still kneeling, Thor slides the white robes from his shoulders, letting the fabric fall to his waist. He takes the pooled cloth in his fists and rips, tearing it away to expose himself before the god, naked and vulnerable with death written across his flesh.

Loki laughs, but it is not the breathy, joyful laugh Thor knows from long hunts and lazy, sunlit afternoons beneath the trees. It is raw and vicious and scrapes along Thor’s skin like a blade.

“Do you think I want your submission?” he says, his grin as sharp as his teeth. “That if you let me take you I might spare your life?” He pushes Thor’s face away with a sneer.

Thor swings his head back to face Loki and meets his gaze clear-eyed. “No,” he says and then he takes his heart and his life in his hands and surges up, closing his hands in Loki’s snarled and tangled hair and pressing his mouth against the god’s.

It is blasphemy and sin and a terrible, terrible risk, to accost a god who will most likely kill him for daring to lay hands on the divine. But the Forest Lord is the god of the hunt, the chase, the pounding of blood and the dance with death, and no wild thing submits meekly to the claws and fangs of the hunter. Oh, it is a terrible risk, but it is worth it, Thor thinks, as he crushes his lips against the inhuman warmth of Loki’s and breathes his breath as the god’s mouth opens in fury or surprise.

The next moment he is choking and kicking as Loki lifts him effortlessly, one hand half-throttling him as it closes around his neck. He had looked half-mad with anger before; now he is incandescent with rage, the grass beneath his feet blackening and reblooming at dizzying speed, vines twisting over his body like serpents.

“You _dare_ ,” he roars, the sound impossibly loud, and Thor might never have seen him, never have heard his voice before this day but he has walked with Loki every day of his life. He _knows_ him, in his bone and blood and breath.

“You are _my_ god,” Thor rasps, chest heaving, spots dancing before his eyes. “I will not be forsaken.”

There is silence and his vision is darkening, the world spinning away: he has made a terrible mistake, his last mistake, and as the shadows close in he is sorry, so sorry that he has brought this on himself, but at least he will die having known the face and lips and touch of his god…and then the vice-like grip on his neck is gone and he has fallen to the ground and the air is sweet and he gasps and gasps and _breathes_.

But it is no true respite for as soon as he recovers enough to lift his head Loki is on him.

“I am a _god_ ,” Loki snarls as he throws Thor on his back, tearing away the last few strips of fabric clinging to his body. “And you are _my_ plaything, a worthless mortal who knows nothing of pain and suffering. I will break you and you will be glad of the breaking.”

Thor is dazed, winded, hopelessly outmatched; yet he fights and fights hard, kicking and biting and forcing Loki to cover him with his own body, his serpentine vines flowing from him to Thor, knotting themselves around his wrists and ankles and then plunging into the sun-baked earth, anchoring him to the ground.

He fights not to be released but to prove his own strength: he will not submit, will not yield, not because he does not want this, for he does, oh he does, but because Loki wants him to struggle, wants him to strive, not for escape but for mastery, to try and take from Loki what Loki is all too willing to give. He will not lie still and give with trembling lips what he has given to no other; he is no rabbit to sit motionless as the death-dealing fox dances closer and closer. He is the Chosen and he chooses this.

Loki loves him for his pride and his strength and so he fights to give what Loki could so easily take, for plaything he may be, but he is not a man to be broken and the Forest Lord loves not the cowering but the defiant. The vines snap and shatter as he struggles, managing to get one hand free long enough to grab Loki by his antlers and pull him back into a kiss. Loki responds by biting and the coppery tang of blood fills Thor’s mouth as his hand is forced back to the ground and reclaimed by the vines.

Loki kneels between his spread-eagled thighs, panting; his lips shine with Thor’s blood.

“And here I thought that woman had made you weak,” he smirks and runs a finger lightly along Thor’s leaping erection. “But I see you are not unmanned yet.”

Thor forces himself to look at the god steadily. The predator takes the weak; a hunter seeks out the strong. “She is a good woman and a worthy companion,” he says, and watches the fury rise again in Loki’s eyes. “But you are my Lord. I am yours.”

Loki bares his teeth. “Mine,” he says triumphantly and seizes Thor by the hips, pulling him onto his lap, the vines pulling Thor’s hands together above his head until he is one long line of sacrificial flesh. Now nothing he can do will break them and there is no give in Loki’s bruising grip. The choice is made.

“Yours,” Thor says huskily, the grass soft against his back, his knees bent and hips lifted, braced against the god’s thighs and throws his smile like a challenge at Loki’s face.

Loki lifts him in one fluid movement and impales him on his cock.

Thor screams. The pain is blinding, the sudden invasion agonising and yet – and yet – it does not feel as he had thought it would, but more like a sudden flare of heat burning him from his core, a pain that flares beneath his skin, but does not match any sensation of tearing or bleeding. He has never been taken, never allowed another man the honour, but he has been touched inside before, his more experienced lovers carefully sliding one slicked finger into him while they pleasured him with their mouths, so he is not wholly unfamiliar with the sensation and this – this is not it.

Even as he tries to understand it, the pain fades and dies, slipping away impossibly fast and he comes back to himself to find he is clinging to Loki, his arms wrapped around the god’s shoulders, his face buried in his neck. He shifts a little and there – now he feels it, feels the strangeness of being filled, of being stretched wide open, almost uncomfortable but it does not _hurt_ as it should. He does not understand.

“I am a god, foolish mortal,” Loki hisses, his hands holding Thor firmly in place. “You will feel what I choose to let you feel.”

Thor has no answer to that and in truth his defiance is done: Loki will claim him and then he will live or die as the god chooses, and that is as it should be. All he can ask for now is to know what it truly means to be loved by the Forest Lord.

He presses his lips to the juddering pulse in Loki’s neck, relieved at this one point of familiarity in the body of the divine, and kisses him wetly, trying to adjust to the feeling of Loki within him. Loki makes a low, pleased sound and Thor summons his courage and begins to bite, lightly and then harder, wondering if he can leave a bruise on the god’s pale neck.

He is not given the opportunity to find out, for Loki shifts his grip and then tilts forward, lowering Thor back to the ground. It is the third time the god has put him on his back and he is not foolish enough to try and rise again.

Loki stares at him, eyes dark, and Thor stares back. He has known so much beauty in his life and yet he has never seen anything that can compare to the Forest Lord.

Loki leans forward, arching his body over Thor’s and brings his mouth to Thor’s lips. Thor obediently parts them and accepts Loki’s kisses, thrilling in the taste of the god’s mouth, the slick wetness of his tongue.

When they part, Loki smiles and then he lifts Thor’s hips again and begins to move.

Loki takes him hard and fast, for there is no mercy in the Forest Lord and little gentleness, but Thor does not care, Thor cannot think of anything except how overwhelming the sensation is, the slick slide of Loki’s cock, the almost unbearable heat of his skin, the hollow emptiness as he withdraws and the shock of being stretched anew as he pushes back in. It is incredible and almost too much to bear, pleasure coiling deep in his belly and spreading outwards, a glorious ecstasy that tingles through his whole body and leaves him breathless with bliss.

He bucks and writhes and gives himself over the sensation, letting Loki drag guttural moans from him as he somehow picks up his pace, driving in harder and faster, his panting a counterpoint to Thor’s desperate pleading. He wants more, he needs more, just the lightest of touches to his neglected cock and he will come and he knows, he _knows_ it will be worth everything.

But Loki is cruel and he will not touch Thor, nor allow Thor to touch himself, but takes his own pleasure from Thor, his powerful thrusts stuttering and shallow as he empties himself Thor with a growl. Thor should be humble, should be reverent, should take pride in giving his flesh to his god but he is frantic and he can only think of what he needs.

“Please,” Thor groans, clutching at Loki’s arms, “Lord, _please_ -”

“Swear you will be loyal to me and I will give you what you need,” Loki murmurs, his dark hair falling like a curtain across Thor’s face as he leans in even closer. “Give me your word you will never betray me again.”

“Never, Lord, I swear it,” Thor says, pleasure blooming across his body, unbearably sweet but not nearly _enough_. “I love you, I will love only you, my god, my Lord, my -”

Loki wraps a hand around Thor’s aching erection and slides it along his length once, twice, and that it is, that is all he needs, his body convulsing, back arching as he comes screaming Loki’s name before falling into blissful darkness.

When he wakes, night has fallen. He stands, slowly and awkwardly, his body stiff and sore. He cannot see Loki but the clearing feels alive with anticipation and he is sure he is not alone. He hesitates.

Loki has chosen to spare his life. It is unheard of, for the Forest Lord always keeps his sacrifices and hoards them jealously, not even leaving their bones to be found. Thor is certain he pleased his Lord with both his defiance and his submission. Is being left here a sign that he can return to the village and all will be as it was before, provided he does not take another wife?

It is a great gift, and a greater one indeed from a god such as Loki. But Thor does not want it.

How can he return to the village now? How can he live a life where his god only whispers to him, only brushes his skin with leaves and the lightest of breezes, now that he has seen his face and known the heat of his skin? He has seen what it means to be truly loved by a god. Nothing else will do.

He falls back to his knees in the soft, damp grass and holds out his hands, eyes closed but head up.

He does not have long to wait.

Loki’s hand is heavy on his head and he steps forward into Thor’s body space until his pelvis brushes against Thor’s face. Thor opens his eyes and looks up.

“Let me worship you,” Thor says, and it is as much a command as a plea.

 “You dare?” Loki asks, but he is smiling and his eyes are warm.

“You are my god,” Thor says, brushing his mouth over Loki’s hipbone. “And the signs are clear.”


End file.
